About a year ago I had to admit that my husband was hopelessly addicted to "flying things," specifically to soaring in his glider and to flying in his plane. Not that there had not been several years warning, but like many "significant others" of soaring pilots, I denied the appeal of the sky, thinking, hoping that he would "outgrow" some of it, or he'll realize what else he's missing, or perhaps it's just a long stage that he'll pass through with age. Well, we grew older and older, but he didn't pass through it, and it seemed to intensify as we aged.

I became more than mildly concerned. Since I'm somewhat driven by my profession as a psychologist and psychotherapist to try to understand human nature as well as the nature of addictions and addictive behavior, I began to read about soaring, flying, and everything I could find on pilots and their behaviors. Ed Kilbourne's tapes were especially insightful! It all sounded intriguing, fascinating, and even a bit tempting. I realized that I was beginning to have my own fantasies about soaring around in the blue sky, and even more fun were the fantasies of his crewing for me once in awhile! However, almost every book I read on learning to soar or fly would state early on that the older one is, the more difficult it is to learn to fly. Since Tim (my husband and pilot of R6) and I are both in our mid-fifties and have five grandchildren, these statements deterred me, as well as elicited a challenge.

Then I had a very strange experience. I was out on a morning jog up a mountain trail in Quito, Ecuador, where one of our daughters and three of the grandchildren live. My reward each day I made this particular jog was to reach a high enough elevation that I could see the top of a gorgeous snow capped volcano across the valley on the other side of Quito. When the sky is blue this volcano, Cayambe, seems to make a powerful statement to everyone who sees it. A statement that empowers the viewer to rise above all adversity, that encourages us to weather the storms and gain the strength that comes by continuing to reach for the stars. On this particular morning, the view was exquisite, and as I stood there taking in the beauty and power of Cayambe, I clearly saw a glider (ASW 20) headed for the snow field on the volcano. I looked harder and saw that the pilot looked like me. At this point, knowing I was breathing hard, being at an elevation of about 13,000 feet, I thought I must have a severe enough oxygen deprivation that my brain was being deranged. Yet I was lost in the vision (for lack of a better word), and as my gaze shifted to the volcano, I saw Tim sitting casually beside our hiking tent, which was pitched near the highest peak of Cayambe. Then I landed his cherished R6 right in the snow field a few yards from the tent. He just grinned, shifting a piece of eucalyptus twig in his mouth, and said, "I knew you could do it."

At this point I laughed aloud, jolting myself back to reality, and I figured I really must start back down the mountain because I was having weird hallucinations. After getting back to the apartment, I called Tim in the USA to share this bizarre vision with him. He didn't declare me insane as I thought he might, but just calmly said, "I understand that vision. You'd best come on home and learn to fly."

Two of the grandchildren overheard the conversation and eight year old, Nina simply said, "Of course you can learn to fly, Grandma." Two and half year old Matthew chimed in, "Yeah, Gramma fly."

One week later I was back home, and one day later that I was up in our Cessna 180 for my first lesson. Tim was amazed that I knew some of the terminology, understood some of the basic aerodynamic concepts, and could actually maintain attitude and hold a bank, which turned out to be beginner's luck! We put "Charlie," the 180 away and headed for Harris Hill, our local glider field. Since the runway was over two feet deep in snow, there was no glider flying that day, but we came home with books, diagrams, maps, and models. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed, excited, and scared. The scared was mostly due to all those fears that creep in when we begin anything new at any age: fear of failure, fear of stupidity, fear of not doing it right, fear of not living up to his expectations ( a biggie when we are taking instruction from a spouse), and there was that nagging fear of maybe I am too old to learn to fly. Each time one of these fears surfaced, I'd try to let it go (or breathe it out, in psychotherapeutic terms) and remember Cayambe. I'd discovered the power of creative visualization years ago struggling to play golf, so I began to spend many hours soaring and flying in my head.

I'd heard Tim and many other pilots say that learning to fly a glider should come prior to learning to fly power, if a person really wanted to understand flying. I really wanted to understand flying--and my husband's addiction.

Last winter in Upstate NY was an unusually fabulous one for us cross country skiers, but did not lend itself to soaring, so I ordered and watched films on everything with wings that allows people to stay in the sky. I visualized take-offs, patterns, stalls, and landings. We had many winter sessions in the Cessna until Tim was assured I could keep the wings level, fly coordinated, recover from a stall, fly a pattern, and do well executed turns.

Then the snows melted, the gliders came out of the hanger , and I thought I was ready to soar----until I tried to keep that 2-33 behind the tow plane.There were many attempts, one broken tow rope, caused by my zigging when I should have zagged, a bruise in the center of my upper back where Tim's finger had tapped messages like "Keep the wings level," "coordinated flight," "more rudder," "you can't do that" (after I'd just done whatever), and several "oh my God's."But miracles do happen, and one day Jason, a tow pilot. confronted me with, "What th' hell happened?"

I replied, "What do you mean? That was the best I've ever done!" He replied, "That's what I mean. You stayed right in line. By Jove, maybe you've finally got it." I began to relax and allow myself to think that maybe I really might make it.

Then came the how to stay in a thermal lessons! The bruise in my upper back became a permanent indentation. Low groans came from the back seat, and the comments changed to things like "Not such a steep bank!", "Let me take it!" and "I've got it!" After one of these I hollered back, "Take it and keep it...I'm done!" as tears were spilling over. Within a nanosecond of my outburst, a red-tailed hawk soared up from under my outside wing. I knew nature had just presented me with an invaluable gift. It was as if the hawk said, "I'll show you how. Follow me." I followed him, and surely enough things moved into place. I relaxed and Tim was impressed.

And then-----the landings!! Especially the landings to the North at Harris Hill in a cross wind. The favorite line around the glider field became, "She certainly gets double her money's worth with landing practice since she manages to land at least twice per final glide." After one particularly hard kiss of nose skid to ground, Tim could only let out something between a growl and an "ugh," and I let out a barrage of unprintables. As I opened the canopy there stood two new junior members, who did not know that we were married (and had survived much worse than hard landings) with their eyes saying what their mouths wouldn't dare . I was embarrassed and promised myself not to react negatively regardless of the situation and regardless of the tension under the canopy. After that the juniors seemed to take a special interest in my flying lessons, and I began comparing my progress to theirs, as they did theirs to mine. It was a boost to their self esteem and a disaster for mine! Some of these 14 year olds, who can't even drive (Actually a bonus to their flight lessons) could master many flying skills quickly that that I had to practice, and practice, ad infinitum. I began to have all kinds of doubts about this age thing, as well as about my sanity for even attempting this. I was also hearing horror stories about all the relationships (some marriages even) that had been destroyed by one's trying to teach the other to fly.

My student pilot role was in jeopardy. Then I overheard one pilot say to another that I probably should fly with someone other than my husband because I would have to eventually. I was panicked because I could not imagine being in a plane without Tim. Regardless of the bruised indentation in my upper back, I knew he was an excellent instructor and I had to admit I always depended on him to correct my mistakes. Then he suggested that I take some flights with Pat Anderson, who was working at Harris Hill for the summer and was doing a superb job of instructing the juniors. Pat turned out to be another special gift, a kind of "angel," in that he would just gently offer encouragement like "Good Job," "You're really doing well" (without even adding " for your age"), and when I would goof he could stay calm and tell me to relax and try again. Pat is basically a laid back kind of guy, but he confessed that he'd lost his last girlfriend by trying to teach her to fly. This made me realize how complicated interactions become when we get caught in the expectations we all hold for people we love the most. Pat congratulated Tim and me for making it through the hours we'd stayed together in the cockpit . He assured me that I was an able student. and slowly my self confidence and competence began to build.

The landings improved, and late one afternoon after a "nicht so schlecht" landing, Tim came by and Pat suggested I go up with Tim to show him how well I was doing. I felt the tension creep in and I knew this would be more of a test for me than a solo. I was terrified. Self-fulfilling prophecies proved to be the name of the game, and I made the most awful landing of my career. I'd had a bad habit of coming in too low, so had been practicing coming in higher, becoming comfortable with slips if one need be done. On this flight, being determined not to be low, I was too high, waited too long to do the slip, and probably would have done a wing over had Tim not grabbed the controls. There were no words---only deadly silence. I was humiliated, and very discouraged.

We were preparing to leave for the 15-meter Nationals in Montana within a few days, so I decided I'd best take some time out of the sky and focus on crewing, being a SCUM was better than being a "flight flunkee."

This proved to be a wise decision. During the over 40 hours together in the car driving out and back we were able to talk through many of the tensions that had mounted in the cockpit during the lessons. We agreed that both of us had exceptionally high expectations, for ourselves, as well as for the other. We both have a tendency to be controlling under pressure, so our power struggles can be fierce, in or out of a cockpit!

There was also a very subtle kind of dynamic that I wanted to be especially good so he would be proud of me, and I wasn't accepting that I was a total beginner, not in any position to prove anything!

I do keep a journal and while on this trip tried to put the learning to fly experience in perspective: I had to give myself credit for all I had learned and stop beating myself up for setbacks and mistakes, which my intellectual self knows are a necessary part of all learning, but it's difficult to be accepting of our own mistakes. I had to let go of this "too old" bit, and accept that most of us, at any age, can learn what we are motivated to learn if we are willing to give the experience time and energy. I had to believe in my own dream, and the vision of Cayambe, and not expect Tim's belief to carry me through. I had to accept that there are high expectations and more tensions when we work with our most intimate other and are in a one down position. I did feel on the defensive when I made mistakes, and this is never pleasant for either person. We both have had to learn that we can make it through anything if there is love, commitment to a common goal, and honest communication. I had to remember basic learning principles, one of the most important being that things tend to get worse before they get better, but that doesn't mean give up. It could mean just to relax or take a break to let things settle. I had to keep practicing creative visualization, and understand that it does take brains over 50 a bit more practice to create new neural pathways. Perhaps the most difficult acceptance was to accept that I didn't have to be perfect to have my husband's love and support, and that I needed to respect his expertise without trying to prove anything other than I wanted to become a good, safe pilot.

While in Montana I watched hundreds of take-offs and landings made by some of the best soaring pilots in the country. As I watched I would try to visualize each move they were making as if I were doing the flying, and discovered that my "old" synapses were beginning to connect more quickly. Soon I was doing landings in my dreams. Possibly it even helped that Tom Knauff would quiz me on glide slopes for landings each time he saw me. I was walking all over pointing out 5 to 1's.

The first day after we returned I couldn't wait to get back to Harris Hill. During my first flight Pat he asked how I'd managed to get in so much flying practice while crewing for a Nationals. I'd only practiced in my mind, but it had paid off. Three days later I made my first solo. It was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. To be up there with only the hawks while their wings said, "Good job, we knew you could do it."

After being drenched by the juniors, having my T-shirt cut and signed, I called Tim, and got, "I knew you could do it, Grandma." "Thanks, Grandpa!"

That was over a month ago and since then I've begun to wonder if I'm an addict----yet? We are flying together again and with a renewed faith in our relationship as we can now share another aspect of our lives. As autumn comes to our area, we know that soaring season is nearing its end, and I will be as sad as he this year when that happens. I begin ground school for power in a few weeks........"on verra."